


how could i know my spell was broke?

by cakecakecake



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Dirty Talk, Eventual Romance, F/M, Flirting, Hands, Light Bondage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pets, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:16:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakecakecake/pseuds/cakecakecake
Summary: simple moments between wong's new apprentice and the former doctor.





	1. gloves

He's always worn the gloves. 

Leather, a rusted mustard yellow, shrugged halfway up his forearms. They look snug about his hands, yet his sling ring somehow fits inside. They're a bit tattered, but never dirty, despite him wearing them _all the time_ \-- gardening, meditating, reading (wouldn't they make it harder to turn the pages?). It's been months since you've met him and you've never seen him take them off -- until a stormy summer evening.

"Tell me again how you managed this." His voice errs on the cold side of patient. You breathe out a hollow laugh, pressing a washcloth against your fresh laceration.

"I was...trying to conjure a fairie," you start meekly, shifting on top of the bathroom counter, "but I mistranslated the Sanskrit and ended up summoning something a little more -- malevolent."

He huffs through his nostrils, almost amused as he cants his head to the right, a curl of hair barely brushing the arch of his brow. "Let me see."

He takes your outstretched arm in his gloved hand, gently removing the cloth to look over your wound. You wince, only slightly; it's not a very deep cut, but it zig-zags down the length of your forearm. It stings, but you've felt worse. Strange clicks his tongue. 

"Lucky for you, whatever you met with wasn't _so_ malevolent as to give you more than just a cat-scratch," he muses, sounding more like a doctor than you'd ever heard before. "You should be more careful with your incantations. You could have been skinned, or had your entire arm severed -- "

"I'm sensing a little bit of judgement here, doctor -- " 

"Just a little bit." He opens the cabinet to grab the gauze wrappings. 

"Oh, okay, like _you_ never summoned a demon before?" you tease him with only a bristle of annoyance.

He half-laughs, pulling at the fingers of his gloves and if he's said something witty back at you, you don't hear it, because he's doing something you hadn't expected him to do -- he's taking them off. The gloves. 

He's taking the gloves _off_ and your mind nearly short-circuits. He's actually taking them off, revealing his hands -- his big, broad hands, hands that you've wondered what would look like (feel like) for months on end. Bare at last, before your eyes -- bare and on your skin. And scarred. 

You swallow. 

Very _heavily_ scarred. Spindling red rivets run the length of his fingers in a web over his splotched, marred skin. Warm from their confines, his palms are a bit sweaty; the pads of his fingers a bit rough and calloused. You'd imagined a softer touch and, truthfully, unblemished skin, given how well he cares for himself -- not that his scars are unsightly. Alarming, indeed, but not ugly (although he obviously seems to believe so). As he winds the wrappings about your arm, you notice he's quivering, the shaking making his work a bit clumsy. It doesn't quite seem that he's very much in pain, just working hard through the lack of complete control. Like he's had to deal with this for a very long time. You wonder how long, lost in imagining what it was that could have done this to him when his voice clips through your fog of thought.

"What is it?"

You snap your head up, brows creasing as you meet his face with a frown. It's hard, looking Stephen Strange in the eyes. They're narrow and sharp, an icy, glacier blue with little flecks of green circled about his pupils, and they have a way of making you wilt before him whenever they catch you in a stare. And you're staring, yet again, like you always do. 

"Stephen," you manage, afraid to pry, but your mouth works faster than your head. "What happened to you?"

He drops his gaze and continues securing your bandages with a shake of his head. "A car accident."

It must have been one hell of a car accident, you think, wondering if he's sparing you the real truth, but he goes on, "A really _bad_ car accident, believe it or not. My own fault. Years and years ago."

Wong had told you the story you'd been too timid to ask about -- Strange had left his profession and pursued the mystic arts. With details omitted -- details you'd been sure hadn't been much of your business to know anyway -- you hadn't considered that his injury had been the whole reason why he'd chosen to study sorcery in the first place. So you ask, delicately, with genuine and innocent curiosity, "Why didn't you just heal your hands?" 

"Because I found a better way to make use of my prowess," he answers as humbly as he can, softly. "Besides...they look far more gruesome than they actually feel."

"I don't think they look gruesome at all," you offer sweetly, brushing your unharmed hand against his in a more flirtatious manner than you really intended, but if he minds, he hides it well. He smooths surgical tape over the gauze and releases your arm, leaving you cold at the loss of contact. 

"Be careful not to disturb the bandages too much when you shower," he says plainly, smiling faintly. He turns to let himself out of the bathroom, the Cloak of Levitation sweeping across your cheek ever so lightly as he exits. You crack a smile, feeling a familiar flutter in the pit of your chest, a feeling that will flood through you again the following morning when you see Stephen making tea -- without the gloves on.


	2. beyonce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want a menagerie of adorable pets with this sorcerer but for now a cat will do

She's a tiny thing, this kitten that keeps wandering around the sanctum. 

You first saw her peering through the bushes in the courtyard a week ago. A mess of coal-black fur and piercing green eyes, hungrily staring down your tuna melt before you'd caught her gaze. Your come-hither kissing noises had scared her off, but she returned this morning, mewling and pawing around the begonias. You scoop her up in your arms and take her inside, much to Stephen's protests.

"If you feed her, she'll keep coming around."

"Exactly the point," you tell him, cheeky, watching her gorge herself on some canned tuna. Stephen groans, dramatic in his disapproval as usual. 

"What if she belongs to somebody?"

"She doesn't. No collar, no microchip."

"Wong is allergic."

"I'm not allergic," Wong's voice reverberates down the foyer and your smile stretches even wider.

"Wong's not allergic."

"We're not keeping the cat."

"What if we name her Beyonce?"

Stephen lowers his eyelids with an impatient flare of his nostrils. "Just make sure she doesn't get into anything," he says as if he couldn't reverse any potential damage with the flick of his wrist. You grin at the purring mass of fluff at your feet. 

Beyonce crawls into his lap as he's meditating two hours later and you pretend not to notice the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth.


	3. master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> concept: stephen is more innocent than you'd think

"Stephen?" You ask him in a small voice, as small as you feel under his gaze. "Will you...ask me that thing?"

He tilts his head, a sheen of sweat across his wrinkled forehead. 

"Ask you...what thing."

You giggle softly, arching your back to thrust your tits out as you grin up at him, expectant. "You know...that thing I mentioned before."

He unravels his arms from around your waist and you feel your cheeks redden. He's not smiling back. "What _thing_."

"That thing you asked Quill that one time." 

He takes only a moment to consider it before denying you flat-out. "No."

You pull at the front of his robes impetuously, your bottom lip caught in your teeth. "But it's hot..."

"You think _everything_ I say is hot," he says with a slight of amusement, quirking his brow.

"Okay, wig," you scoff, "but come on, you don't like it when I beg?"

Indignant and haughty, he sighs, crossing his arms as he answers coolly, "You're my partner, not my _dog_ ," but he trails his eyes over you, watching your robes slip off your shoulders more and more with each of your heaving breaths. So openly enticed by the thought of him asking that simple question, with your eyes so wide and glassy. You lick your lips, sinking back onto the bed with your nails dug into your thighs.

"Can you just humor me, please? I'd really love it if you did..." 

"Alright..." He swallows visibly, the color rising in his face as he sways on the spot. You shift around to a kneel, tucking your feet under your butt as he draws himself closer to you, his thick lashes fluttering as he asks you, slowly and not threatening at all, "What master do you serve?"

It's a little mean to laugh at his attempt, but it was a pathetic one. "Oh, come on Stephen, you're not even trying."

He glares at you, unfolding his arms so that they fall at his sides -- a more rigorous shake in his hands now. He asks you again, raspily, his lip trembling, "What master do you serve?" in the same tone he'd use to ask if you'd like another cup of tea and you tilt your chin up, wondering -- is he nervous? 

Charming as it is to believe that he really doesn't want you to feel degraded, it's also likely that he's not very confident -- why else would he be struggling with one little sentence? Your chest swells at the thought -- Doctor Stephen Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts, nervous to do a little dirty talk? 

"Stephen," you start cautiously, a fondness in your voice, "have you never done this before?"

Before he can snark at you, you add, quickly, "I mean, dirty talk? Have you never...?"

He rolls his eyes, taking in a shaky breath as he runs a hand over his face. "Is it very obvious?"

"I'm not making fun of you," you insist right away, gently, inching on your knees to the edge of the bed. "You just seem unsure, and I thought you might not have -- "

"No, I haven't," he cuts you off with his flustered answer. "I've never done it. It's uh...never been asked of me."

Your brows fly up in disbelief. "Wow. Never?"

"Nope." A pop on the _"p."_

"With a voice like yours?" you purr, grinning kittenishly, but he seems too embarrassed to smile back. "I can hardly believe it."

"Christine wasn't particularly adventurous," he admits, mumbling. You remember him telling you that his life in med school had been rather stale, that he hadn't the time to explore a lot of things in his old life -- apparently that went farther than you'd thought. "Listen, I -- I'd love to give you what you want, but I'm afraid I'm not-so-great at this sort of thing..."

"I told you I wasn't so great at giving head, but I still sucked your cock," you tell him light-heartedly, smirking. You got him there. He chuckles knowingly, nodding.

"I'll tell you the same thing you told me then. If you indulge me this one time and hate it, I promise I won't ask for it again," you promise him, dripping molasses from your voice. "So, please, try for me?"

Stephen fidgets, looking heavenward in search for the inner strength before his shoulders fall in repose. His fingers twitch as his eyes flicker to yours, shining and already foggy, already so excited, before turning them downward, endearingly bashful. His breathing comes in a rapid staccato as the Eye of Agamotto practically bounces off his chest -- oh, poor thing, his heart is pounding. He's so _nervous_ , the most powerful sorcerer in the multiverse, trembling before you. You bite your tongue, wetness pooling between your thighs as your blood starts thrumming harder in your ears. "What master do you serve?"

You hum pleasantly, cocking your head to and fro -- "Better, but, more aggressive -- "

Clenching his jaw, he tries again, louder this time, "What master do you serve?"

"Threaten me, Stephen," you demand of him, fighting the smile upon your lips. "I want you to scare me, make me a little afraid of you -- "

Your breath is nearly cut off when the sparks of magic burst and materialize into the crimson chains, seizing around your neck. Stephen's voice drops lower, sinister and dusky as his eyes sharpen. "What _master_ do you serve?"

You clutch instinctively at the bands, choking out a laugh, impressed and _impossibly_ turned on. "Y...You."

He laughs close-lipped, a chortle at the back of his throat. "Was that scary enough for you?" He waves a hand to dissipate the chains, but you shake your head.

"Yes, yes, but -- don't make them vanish yet -- "

"You want me to...keep you tied up?" He asks you naively. You grin.

"If it's not too much to um...try some bondage too? "

"We can incorporate two lessons in one night," he agrees. And the bands manifest around your wrists too.


End file.
